


John Watson Has A Micropenis

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Micropenis, Nonaconda, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: During a discussion about how John always seems to have to be large of cock, or else someone throws a fit, I mentioned how I always wanted to write a fic where he absolutely wasn’t. Not even close. The discussion continued, we all decided to write something and gather them all together and the rest... is fic history.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 58
Kudos: 101
Collections: SmallDickFics





	1. Chapter 1

“What the fuck was that all about?”

“He was about to dart back into that tunnel. There was 28% chance he would manage to slip past Lestrade’s best and brightest back at the pawnshop, and althiugh admittedly small, it wasn’t one I was willing to take.”

“So you decided it was worth risking your life tackling an armed man!” Sherlock had let out a fierce growl and ran toward the would-be-bank-robber, who had managed to discharge his firearm right into Sherlock’s left thigh before being knocked to the ground.

“Not just any armed man.” Sherlock stopped to wince, then took a deep breath and continued, “And this also isn’t the first time I’ve been in this type of situation with John Clay. I wanted it to be the last time. He has always managed to elude capture.”

“Never a good reason to risk your life, Sherlock!”

“But—“

“And don’t you go telling me it’s just a scratch! I’ll be the judge of that.” John quickly examined the blood soaking through the outside of Sherlock’s aesthetically-pleasing trousers. 

“Can we at least go home first? I’d rather not be stripped down to my pants in the middle of First National, even if it is a Sunday.” He gestured toward the night watchman and bank president, who had insisted on accompanying them into the vault.

“Fine. I’ll take care of you at home.”

Sherlock smiled. John would later look back on the whole situation and realise that he should have known right then, what Sherlock was up to. And perhaps, if it wasn’t for the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he might have been able to better judge what that look had meant before Sherlock managed to wipe it clean from his features. By the time John had determined the rate of bleeding was fairly slow and looked back to check for any additional injuries, it was clear Sherlock’s face was registering pain, but not the pallor of severe blood loss. The injury warranted treatment, but not at the nearest ER. 

“Can you stand, or do I need to shoulder-carry you?”

Sherlock blinked several times, then seemed lost in thought for a moment. He looked down at his leg, assessing the level of damage, and frowned, placing his hand lightly upon the wound. “I think I can stand. Maybe even walk on my own? I’ll just—”

“Like hell you’ll walk. I only said stand. Can. You. Stand? Just stand.”

“I’m _absolutely certain_ I can, John” 

“Alright then, shoulder-carry it is.” John bent low and gathered Sherlock’s lanky frame in his arms, cursing under his breath. “You just had to be so bloody tall, didn’t you?” 

John had no problem carrying him to the pavement. Not really. It just felt right to complain about it a bit first. After all, seeing his life flash before his eyes as Clay pulled out a gun had only served to remind him how much he wanted Sherlock in that life—always. How much Sherlock had been in his life so far. How much more he wanted of him. In those few seconds, John knew how much he absolutely loved the man. And then Sherlock had gone and got himself shot. So much for a romantic post-case confession. He was too furious, and too worried, and too...every emotion under the sun. Getting him home and taking his trousers off was, sadly, still in order. But the context was entirely wrong. 

John explained he needed to hail a cab. He released his grip on Sherlock but he only leaned more into him, smelling faintly of that posh git shampoo. John loved that fucking shampoo. He loved those wild curls which were currently plastered against Sherlock’s pale face and he loved the way he was burrowing that face into John’s shoulder. He held him upright and managed to flag down a cab with one arm, the other wrapped around Sherlock’s thin frame. He kept it round him as he gently set Sherlock down in the back seat, then shut the door and went to the other side so Sherlock wouldn’t have to scoot toward the center of the cab.

The driver turned to look at them both, his face hardening. He was going to say something about them not bleeding all over his cab, John knew, but he shot him a look that made the man think better of it. “Where to?” was all the cabbie actually said.

“221 Baker,” replied John, and the driver nodded.

It wasn’t far. They had walked to the bank earlier in the evening together, bundled against the chilly night air, Sherlock discussing everything short of the actual case. John knew he liked to keep secrets. Wait for the right moment for the big reveal. And that was fine. John had been keeping a few secrets of his own lately. 

John gave the 17 steps to their landing a glare to convey his exasperation and sighed. Not because he couldn’t carry Sherlock, (he was tall, yes, but thin and wiry) but because his mind was flooded with images of them leaning against the wall in the hallway. That first case. That first time he had turned to Sherlock and saw… something. Something ripe with potential. Something brilliant and bold and absolutely wonderful. He had wasted so much time in getting to the point where he could finally do something about it. To take that risk. 

“Let me rest here a moment,” Sherlock said, and he leaned against the very same spot on the wall.

Well, maybe next time he’d have the courage to… well, there would be another opportunity. There had to be. 

When Sherlock gave the ok, John carried him up the stairs and was about to carry him over the threshold, bridal style, when Sherlock insisted on being put down. His voice was quiet, but determined. John did so as gently as possible. “Thank you,” Sherlock said, his cheeks slightly flushed. 

“No reason to be embarrassed,” John said. “You really shouldnt put much weight on it until I get a good look at you.”

Sherlock nodded and cautiously made his way toward his bedroom.

“Sofa’s closer,” muttered John.

“No. This will be better,” Sherlock insisted.

“Suit yourself,” said John. “I’m going to get some supplies. Back in a minute.”

Sherlock was probably right. His bed was large and he could spread out easily there. It would be far more comfortable.

John kept a bag filled with emergency supplies tucked between the sofa and the wall. For some reason, he had always pictured himself providing first aid on the sofa, should the time come. And he always knew it would eventually. 

He grabbed the bag and headed toward Sherlock’s room.


	2. Chapter 2

The door was partly ajar, and it creaked ever so slightly as John pushed it open.

Sherlock was lying on his side, facing the doorway, where John stood transfixed. He didn’t have a stitch of clothing anywhere. John cleared his throat at the sight. He found himself about to say that full nudity was not...exactly...necessary, but was glad he had stopped himself in time. What would have been the point of that? Sherlock was no idiot. He knew what was necessary and what was...more than that. This was not meant to be an exam. Well then. Time to shift gears.

“I like what I’m seeing. But don’t think I’m not going to tend to that leg first.” Clearly it couldn’t be that severe an injury if he was able to put all that weight on his left side. He stepped forward to examine Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock’s pale, absolutely pristine, leg. 

Not so much as a scratch. 

John couldn’t help but reflexively look at the trousers strewn upon the floor, which were still stained with—

“Red hair dye.” 

Red hair dye. 

From last week, when Sherlock had convinced John to go check out the company that was offering scholarships, interest-free loans, and other financial benefits to gingers. “But John, my hair wouldn’t take to it nearly as well!” And he had been right. Sherlock dyed John’s hair, and dear God had it ever felt good, those hands of his running through his scalp. The memory of it was almost enough to make him forget that that same man had secreted some of the dye and used it to make a suitable stain against his trouser leg and splatter it upwards toward his all-too-white, so as to be nearly transparent, shirt at an opportune moment. 

“It was worth faking a wound, John.”

“You... faked getting shot...to...”

“To have an excuse to be naked on my bed, yes. Of course, I needed to make a few observations first before proceeding with the plan, but I was fairly confident as to what I might see.”

“And I’m supposed to just let that small little detail about you faking getting shot go?”

“I was hoping so. There was a lot of planning involved to arrange it so I would end up having sex with you. If you want to be mad for awhile, I suppose it is warranted, but… I was rather hoping the cause for the deception would make it more palatable.”

“So you already calculated that I would be willing to set aside all that happened this morning, just to get a piece of that perfect little arse?”

Sherlock glanced down, then met John’s eyes with renewed confidence. “Yes. I had.” He stopped for a moment, then tilted his head. “Well, balance of probability, which… ummm… now has gone up considerably.”

Praise made him blush. Made his speech just a bit awkward. Good to know. Good to know. John stayed right where he was and examined Sherlock with a whole new purpose in mind. 

Sherlock blushed some more. “Apologies for the... umm… several years’ delay.” 

John nodded. “You did all that… to get naked with me. Impressive.”

“Well, to be precise, John… as of right now, I am the only one naked. Care to remedy that?”

“I certainly do.”

And with that, John took off his jumper with a dramatic flourish, then his shirt and trousers, which he flung to the floor, and finally his pants.

“There. Better?”

“Much.”

“No injuries then?”

“None. Ripped the fabric myself with a small cutter. Bullet never went near me. Deflected his shooting arm just before he fired.”

“Good.” John grinned. “So any soreness you may feel in the morning is gonna be from me.” He watched Sherlock’s eyes widen ever so slightly as John moved in beside the bed and traced his finger along Sherlock’s thigh. There was the lightest pink mark from the dye where it had soaked through the fabric. “Anything I need to know?” John asked. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock had much experience with sex. Anything would have made sense in his youth, though, from being embarrassed at the prospect, to a lack of interest when compared to other intellectual curiosities. Any experimentation seemed more likely to have been with chemistry sets than with sexual partners. But then again, maybe not. Sherlock could be...intense. And he certainly wasn’t hesitant about using his body as a testing ground.

Sherlock shook his head. “What I like? What I don’t? I wouldn’t know what to advise you. Not my area of expertise. Not that I didn’t do adequate research.” Sherlock reached forward and grabbed the back of John’s head, pulling him toward his mouth, kissing him in a way that made him think of plundering pirates. Overenthusiastic. Perhaps proving a point. But eager nonetheless. Yeah, this would be good.

Kissing was apparently something Sherlock knew a lot about. Or maybe it was just a natural talent. John stopped worrying about it. Any of it. Sherlock was his tonight. Whatever experience he had, or didn’t have, was irrelevant. He hadn’t had John Watson. He was about to. Lucky man. 

John had been with his fair share of men in his days in the service, but he was younger then. Less confident. He nearly cringed thinking about how often he had gone through more or less the same motions, knowing it was always effective. Oral sex, and lots of it. He had become quite the expert. Could eat someone out for hours when he wanted to. And he wanted to. He wanted to now. Wanted to taste more than Sherlock’s tongue. Wanted to taste his cock, his arse, that goddamn thigh with traces of red hair dye still lingering on the perfectly pale skin. Wanted to give it a good slap too, or a bite. Make it another type of red entirely.

“Okay then. Tell me if—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John. Spare me the considerate lover speech. If I don’t like something, I’ll be sure to communicate it in an obvious enough way that even someone with your poor observational skills would be able to detect it.” And then he grinned. That bastard fucking grinned.

“You know what? I think you were trying to piss me off now. Trying to piss me off so I’d go at you hard and fast. But you know what? I’m gonna show you those “poor observational skills” in practice by keeping you on edge as long as I can. And believe me when I say that is a _special skill_ of mine. Now, I know you can snap, because I’ve seen you use those long, thin fingers of yours to order people around chop chop, snapping at people, so now you can snap those same fingers if you want me to stop so you can breathe while I’m shoving my cock down your throat. Which I might do now. Or later. Or not at all. Depending on what I _deduce_ and _observe_. Clear?”

“Crystal,” said Sherlock, his voice cracking just slightly, though he tried his best to conceal it. 

Good. This was going to be amazing.

John had little interest in Sherlock sucking him off, though. Not that that mouth wasn’t extraordinary. Not that he hadn’t thought of that mouth doing various things to him on sleepless nights over the past few years. No, he was far more interested in what kinds of sounds he could coax out of Sherlock and how they would change based on what he was doing to him. His kind of experiment.


	3. Chapter 3

John positioned himself at the side of the bed and watched as Sherlock rolled to face him, puzzled. He’d want to know why he was slowing things down instead of speeding them up of course. Jumping into bed beside him. John watched as Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly, and he knew that brain was whiring along at full speed, trying to figure out what John would do next. This was no time for his usual patterns, dependable as they had always been. After all, Sherlock had once said the thing that most appealed to him was John’s unpredictability. 

John leaned forward, still standing over the bed, and kissed him. A bit of reassurance, because for all Sherlock’s confidence, there was still an easily observable layer of doubt beneath it. The kiss was soft, gentle, tender. For all the strength John liked to project, all the confidence he had worked so hard to cultivate, all the bluster, there was an even greater tenderness beneath it. He truly, truly loved this man. Loved him with every bit of himself. After all, John had killed for Sherlock; Sherlock had died for John. He broke the kiss, smiling as Sherlock’s mouth chased his ever so slightly, his head rising off the pillow. John stroked his hair. Then he waited. Waited to see what part of Sherlock’s body moved next, got just a bit restless, felt just a bit of longing.

Shoulders moving back, chest forward, almost imperceptibly, but…

John traced his fingers along Sherlock’s chest, running one down the center, lifting it up just before reaching his navel, and then ran a thumb a bit more roughly across his left nipple. Slight, fleeting touch, or firm and hard? This wasn’t the ideal starting place, simply because if he were to use his mouth, a distinct possibility, he wouldn’t be able to observe any reactions in Sherlock’s facial expressions. Sound, then. Rely on sound.

He licked gently around the tiny nub, then sucked, harder. More pressure. And yes, Sherlock’s breathing rate was increasing in response, but Sherlock remained silent, though John could tell he was still very much present, busy cataloguing every sensation. John could tell he wasn’t about to tell John even something as simple as “more”. Later, he’d explain a bit more about the benefits of actually _talking_ during sex. Then maybe Sherlock would talk. And wouldn’t that be a thing? Once he started, Sherlock would probably never stop. It wouldn’t take long for Sherlock to analyze himself, assess things, assert his own control... and that was a good thing. An excellent thing. He would speak up, and John would provide. But for now...deduction. Never before had he thought of himself in this way— doing what Sherlock does, in a sexual context. He’s always done this sort of thing, though. Always tried to be a few steps ahead of his partner. Adjusting. Compensating— without overcompensating— for his, well, that was when he had worried about such things. Not anymore. 

Harder. Perhaps some teeth? Yes. That’s it. Sherlock arched into his mouth, and that was all the signal he needed as he bit at his nipple and began to give the other some longed for attention with his hand. Sherlock writhed, his hips arching upward, and John decided it was high time he was in bed as well, swinging his body to hover on top of Sherlock’s, giving him his thigh to rut up against. 

John grinned. “If you want that, you’ll have to work for it yourself. I have other things in mind first.” 

Sherlock threw his head back with a bit of disdain, but clearly still processing, and that’s when John caught sight of that neck, just waiting to be explored. He abandoned Sherlock’s nipples, leaving them peaked and wanting, and started on that vast expanse of pale neck. And if that didn’t do the trick! Sherlock arched beneath him, seeking out John’s thigh with such determination to get that blessed friction for himself that John decided not quite yet and moved it away. He pinned Sherlock’s legs down with his own, and raised his hips up to create a frustrating gap between their bodies. 

“Not done exploring you yet. That can wait. Just a bit, though, I promise,” John said, careful not to thwart his efforts too much. After all, that was what they both wanted, just… “Patience,” John said. He could feel Sherlock still trying to move his hips forward, meeting the resistance from John’s weight. Sherlock liked the resistance, then. Good to know.

John had a hell of a time pinning those wrists up over Sherlock’s head with only one hand. It almost gave him pause. He was sleeping with a fucking giant with wrists the size of his calves. But he grabbed a wrist tightly and put a bit of his forearm into keeping the other in place, and all was well. _Adaptation, Watson, adaptation._

John took a moment to look Sherlock over once more. Panting slightly, still fighting for control. No, for composure. _Oh no, Sherlock. That’s not going to happen. We are going to go over this edge together and we are both going to be a mess when we’re done. I’m not going to spare either of us the mortification of surrendering like total idiots, Sherlock. Not you. Not me._

“Remember what I said about you sucking me off? Yeah, I do think maybe we’ll just try that now. Shift backward.” He released Sherlock just long enough for him to slide down the bed, grateful Sherlock’s mattress was so large. John wanted to be sure to have enough room at the head of the bed so he could pivot his weight forward if he wanted to. He couldn’t fill Sherlock’s mouth up with the sheer size, but he could still create a similar effect. 

Sherlock opened his mouth eagerly, enveloping John with a sigh, taking to it as if he had been waiting for this moment for years. Maybe he had been. Damn, was he ever good at this. Not as awkward as the kissing had been, but then again it was easy to see the effect this was having as John let his own noises escape his throat. John has spent too much of his time giving head, often as a sort of warm-up activity, make them come right at the beginning and they’ll not be disappointed, that he had forgotten just how good it felt. He revelled in it. Pushing forward, John found himself fighting off the hazy waves of pleasure. He wanted his mouth, yes, but not only his mouth. John wanted to reach for Sherlock’s cock, to lick at his chest some more, to push himself inside his body and... and... just, do everything, all at once. John moved backward, popping quickly out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock again pursued him, but John told him as amazing as that was, and god was it ever, there was more to tr— to catalogue. More to catalogue. 

Spit-slick, John debated entering Sherlock without lube. He could, if he wanted to, but it might still be uncomfortable at first. Sherlock had thought of this possibility of course. There was a small container on his bedside table, and John could always work himself quickly, but there were other options which had greater appeal. “On your stomach, legs spread out to the sides.” John spead him open and took his tongue to him, longing to see his face, but contented himself with the initial gasp when he breached him with his tongue, the clench of his hands in the sheets, then his seeking out John’s hands blindly, John grasped his hands tightly, feeling the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his grip and the keening in his voice. John stopped to run his hands along the small of his back before starting up again. He could forgo the lube this time. 

Making small circles at his entrance, John pushed forward slowly, waiting for Sherlock’s body to yield. A series of short gasps, not pain, more like a sort of bewilderment. When he was fully seated, a sigh. Deep and resonant. It sent a shiver right to John’s core. Yes. Finally. Yes. 

John wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips, thrusting forward, angling himself down. With a bit of anatomical luck, he could just hit his prostate. On the deeper thrusts, at least. At the very least, this angle would give Sherlock ample friction against the sheets.

Finally, finally, John heard Sherlock speak. Quietly at first. Tentative. As if speaking would somehow break the spell. “John…” Into the pillows at first, then more clearly, his upper body lifting off the bed as his muscles tensed. Then loud enough for John to hear clearly. “John! Oh, yes, that’s… Ah!”

John grimaced. He couldn’t hit quite the right angle, nor could he see Sherlock’s face at all, but he kept his rhythm steady. 

“Sherlock, I...can’t ...quite,” he began, than taking a breath and riding through a wave of pleasure which threatened to overtake him completely, John managed to regain his voice. “Ok if we try again with you on your side, your top leg out forward and your bottom leg straight, I can ….can straddle your leg and get some more depth…” And if that didn’t work...cock,one finger, two fingers, three fingers. John knew how to get what he was after.

“No.”

“I can’t quite get at—”

“Don’t care. Another time. Now, just… this. More of this. Please.”

John pushed harder, reaching just below where they were joined and pressed inward with his thumb, hard. Sherlock gasped. “Ah, gotcha. Raise up on your knees if you can, just a bit. That’s right. Just like that.” Sherlock struggled to raise himself and John slipped his other hand beneath him and gripped Sherlock’s cock with his other hand. This was what he loved. Every part of his body working together. John was faltering in his rhythm, and Sherlock might just have been revelling in it in their competition of who would absolutely lose composure first, had he been at all aware, that is. John grinned. It had to be Sherlock first, had to be… fuck fuck fuck... “Fuck, I can’t keep it going, I….fuck, Sherlock, I…” Planting small kisses on his back was what did it, the smallest of gestures, sending Sherlock toppling over the edge, his cock, harder than fucking steel, so very hot, finally pulsing in his hand. It was Sherlock’s voice though, a low growl, that made John give it all up, every last bit of himself, swearing from the exertion as he gave one final thrust and came hard.

They lay quietly, just breathing, before Sherlock finally looked down with a bit of displeasure at the sticky mess plastered to the hairs on his stomach. 

John laughed. 

“That thing you were saying, about on my side with my the leg out and… all that…?”

“Yeah?” John said. It was a way to sometimes get a better angle. Give him just a half-inch more, if he could get the positioning right. “You want to try that? Ok. We can. It might not make much of a difference, but, we could try to—“

“I’d like to try that next time. I can see your face much easier that way.”

Sherlock yawned, shifted out of the wet spot on the mattress, and drifted off to sleep, taking a moment to wrap John’s arm around his side and up toward his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> This went to a rather unexpected place. Back when I first came up with this idea, I had intended it as a sort of drop and run, waiting for anyone who dared give me flack on it. I was going to write it exactly the same as any other sexytimes. No mention of the size of John’s cock except in the title. If anyone asked about it I was prepared to retort to comments like “why make it about hus tiny cock if it wasn’t about that at all” with “It’s almost like it didn’t matter at all, huh? How about that!” But then it kind of occurred to me I wasn’t writing for the obnoxious commenter who inspired this whole collection. I was writing for y’all. And y’all aren’t like that. So. Things changed a bit. This became a bit less of a giant fuck you, and a bit more of a story about Sherlock and John. Which it should always be. Hope you enjoyed it. :)   
> -Coat


End file.
